


High School Reunion Pt. 2

by somekindofseizure



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 21:32:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16250198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: Anonymous asked: SEQQQQUEEEEEELLLLLLL PPLLEAASEEEE!! For the fic where Scully wants to go to his reunion to let mulder show off he is getting laid... pplleeeaaassseeeeeeeeeee!!!Somekindofseizure: Correction: he’s *pretending* he’s getting laid.





	High School Reunion Pt. 2

“Let’s get out of here,” she says into his ear, hand traveling theatrically across his chest, over his tie and, for extra credit, under his jacket. Her voice gets lost in the hot noise of the gymnasium, a sea of half-drunk adults trying to reclaim their youth.

She has done a good job at this and she knows it but she’s not sure yet that Mulder has noticed how well she’s done. Maybe Mulder wouldn’t know he was the guy everyone thought was having a lot of sex even if they thought it. Even if they were right and he was having it. That’s the point of Mulder and that’s why she loves him. Not like that, of course.

And now the Mulder she loves but not like that is nodding along to the tune of the polo shirted golf playing blowhard opposite them. A tire salesman, she thinks, though she has not had to listen much tonight. It’s been the most fun she’s ever had at a party, the freest she can recall ever feeling in a public situation. Dress up and stare dizzily at your friend all night, pet him whenever you get the chance, pretend the world doesn’t exist - piece of cake. 

She gives her friend a nudge, her sternum against his bicep, dress tightening on either side around her breasts and it is tight to begin with. She raises her voice, remembers that not only does he have to hear for this to be effective, but the tire salesman and if possible, the finance guy pouring punch into his girlfriend’s mouth. She tugs him closer to her mouth but gives it to him like he’s wearing a wire and she knows it, like she wants to get arrested for what she’s about to do.

“I said, let’s get out of here.” 

Inspired bit of acting there, the way she just flicked her tongue against the bottom of his earlobe on the L. She wonders that she herself is not getting profusely laid, has not in fact been laid in, oh my god multiple Christmases have passed, multiple boxes of red dye have come and gone. And here, feeling sorry for herself, she notes that the room smells like teenagers and broken dreams, clammy pigskin and shiny floors, the once fresh wax soured and spoiled by sneakers. 

But she is not one of those teenagers and she’s not even herself, there is no room for self pity at the moment. She is instead a vamp and a seductress, but more importantly a guardian, a protector in a slip dress, the thing that stands between Mulder and these bullies, the army finally come to protect the sweet sensitive boy these assholes once pushed around to feel taller, better, smarter for one second. He let them, she knows that much. She can tell by the man he is today that he let them. 

He’s looking at her, studying her, trying to decipher probably where she’s getting this from. It’s true she hasn’t had sex in a long time but it’s not like she’s a nun, it’s not like she hasn’t wanted to and she’s not sure he has understood that about her until this moment. She blinks her eyelashes three coats of mascara deep and his heart thumps beneath her palm. Sweat beads mate and multiply along his neck, drip down close enough for her to lick it off. She does. She licks it off.

The tire guy laughs, made nervous or embarrassed (at last) by this display of desire. Mulder gulps and puts his hand over hers, she thinks to take it away from his chest, but instead, he rests it there like he’s going to pledge allegiance to the flag or to her. His hand is heavy and her fingers fall deeper into the compression of his body. She can feel his nipple harden between her fingers beneath his shirt. He shifts his hips and she glances down. There is nothing visible happening down there yet but she can tell by his body language that he fears it. She once held an actual beating heart during a surgery when she was a resident and she did not feel as powerful as she does holding this one figuratively.

They leave old tire man and his wife slack jawed and finance guy fish mouthed and Scully is preparing to take a bow when he tugs her to the dance floor.

“Hands around my neck,” he says. “That’s how kids do it. Can you reach?”

“Yes, I can reach,” she says with a bit of spice and just like that, she hears the pumpkin split, her feet swelling in her shoes as they become themselves again. She looks up into his eyes to reproach him and feels his hands clasp loosely at her tailbone. He wasn’t teasing her. He actually wanted to make sure she could reach. He wanted her hands there. “My highest shoes,” she says with half a note of grace in case he noticed the way he riled her.

“Thank you,” he says and she blinks, sneakily shushes him.

“Come here,” he says, “So I can talk to you.”

She lets her face fall closer to his body and he scans her hair like a giraffe poking through leaves, loping at her ear like it’s a sturdy hidden branch.

“Really, I mean it,” he says. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Do what? Put on a slutty dress and smile at you all night? It’s nothing.”

She wiggles involuntarily to make the point but he clasps her tighter and she feels him, not hard yet, but there, substantial, against her slutty dress. 

The dress actually seemed more risqué as she was putting it on. By the time she looked in the mirror, she seemed perfectly respectable. This is a problem she has had since high school, the inability to escape her own classiness. 

But now she feels the balls of his fingers make contact with her tailbone, trace a tiny circle around the silky, loose material below its low hidden zipper. She is wearing absolutely nothing underneath and his touch makes her suddenly remember why she thought it was risqué in the first place, why she left the house a little wet between the thighs.

“You look amazing,” he says and he seems less confident than not only tonight’s fake Mulder but regular Mulder. “So amazing I didn’t want to go home yet.”

They both laugh a little here and the music changes so that it not quite a slow song anymore. But it’s not really fast either. The eighties were a difficult time for dance floors, weren’t they? 

But he doesn’t adjust their position. Is this what she would have done in actual high school? Just let the boy hold her until he either got up the guts to kiss her or not? Sail through entire genres of music, just waiting…

“Did you have sex in high school, Mulder?”

“A little, nothing spectacular. I mean. Not that there was something wrong with her. Just that you know, it’s awkward. You don’t know what you’re doing, you want to do things they might not like but you’re not sure how to ask them if they like it and all you’ve seen is porn which tells you they like everything.”

She rests her ear on his chest and smiles, eyes closed for the benefit of any of his old pals who are still watching. It surprises her how easy it is to talk to him like this and why if it’s so easy they haven’t done it before. 

“Like, what things?”

Her voice vibrates against her ear through his pectoral muscle.

“You know. Pull their hair or… or…” 

There’s a force behind the silence that makes her look up and for the first time she sees him blush, deep lilac in his olive toned cheeks.

“Well you have to finish it now,” she says.

“Y’know, like. Do it from behind or whatever.”

“But you’ve learned since.”

He shrugs and she laughs and he laughs too, suddenly pushes her away and holds onto her hand, twirls her. She feels dizzy as he sucks her back in.

“Who knows how many missed opportunities,” he teases and she has no idea if it means he has never actually pulled a woman’s hair or fucked from behind or just that he doesn’t know how to get those things with words.

“Go ahead,” she says.

“Go ahead what?”

“Practice on me. I’m just a play date. Safe.”

He looks away, then clears his throat, looks back down at her. They’re playing, nothing more, and it feels nice, nicer probably than it would even if they were not playing. Stressless and amiable and well, playful, like she was saying.

“Hey, um, Dana. Do you like your hair pulled?”

She shakes her head no imperceptibly, coaching from the sidelines.

“Shot down, see? Good I never asked. Even better I never just reached out and did it.”

“No, I mean that’s not the way to ask, don’t make it passive.”

“I can’t… do this here.”

“We can’t do it anywhere else,” and her voice drips with a seriousness she did not intend. He looks at her – it is a look that is both long and fleeting, hard and soft. He agrees with her, this is how it is when he agrees.

“Dana,” he says and this time the smile fades from his face and steals hers away with it. “Do you want me to pull your hair?”

She bites her lip and nods yes, keeps nodding past the point of simple recognition on his face.

“You want me to… right now?” he asks and she keeps nodding and now she can feel exactly how it would feel if they weren’t playing, feels the stress, feels it all the way down to her knees. 

His fingers crawl up the back of her neck, into her scalp and the faint touch of neatly manicured fingernail makes goose pimples appear on her bare arms and her breasts. He tugs her hair at its roots, rolls her head on her neck. Her focus moves to the ceiling. Decorations spin, her brain spins. Like the silly fake disco ball at the center of the room that’s casting a ray of blue across his hair. Her shoulder blades are puckered around his nicely-suited wrist.

“Is that her,” he asks and sets her right on her axis again but keeps his hand in her hair. “Or you, really you?”

She brings her face in close in lieu of an answer, raises her nose to brush the stubble on his cheek. It feels as though it is growing back at this very moment, rising from his pores as his erection forms against her belly, becoming a man all at once against her silk dress. She kisses him there once, twice, planting herself like rosettes along his sturdy, slightly dropped jaw. She, for one, has learned how to ask for it.

“Do you ah, wanna go into the hallway, or the car?” he asks. She is grateful he doesn’t ask her some of the other questions he could ask. Why. How much have you had to drink. Should we be doing this. Are you really doing what I think you’re doing. She could not bear them, not as naked as she is tonight, as close to him as she is to him right now, locked between his hard on and a room full of strangers.

“No,” she says. “Here. Has to be here.”

And she is grateful, on some level, that he doesn’t question her here either, challenge her, argue. It is the only thing they have never taken opposite positions on. 

Pity.

The kiss is a vortex. He pulls her from all directions. Hair, dress, the long, flat tongue wrapping and tugging, bearing most of the burden of the height difference. At one point she wonders if it will go literally down the back of her throat, chase the cheap champagne she’s been nursing all night. She has been careful not to get drunk so that she wouldn’t slip up, ruin her cover. 

She is not slipping up. She is doing exactly what she said she’d do. She stayed sober just for this. There are multiple pairs of eyes on her back, jealous and horny, following his longest finger down her back to try to see if that spot he’s pressing in the silk is the crack of her ass (it is). Mulder does not seem like someone who is being profusely laid. He seems like someone who is about to fuck on his high school basketball court.

She sneaks one finger up between their lips because it is the only way she can think to stop him, stop herself, and she does have a question.

“But, uh, if we can only do the things people can see, then ah, I guess we can’t go any further… “

He nods but it is a drunken sort of nod. He is drunk on her. He’s been nursing her all night and now all at once, six shots of her. He will do whatever she says is the right thing to do, whatever she wants.

“Unless, um, if there was a bathroom, we could lock it –“ she says. Whatever she wants.

 

A kiss.

“Lock a stall?”

Kiss.

“No, lock the actual bathroom but people would see us come out, so… so that would be fair game.”

“You’re so ridiculous,” he says sweetly.

“You’re so hard.”

He kisses her again, this time longer, his full lips luxe, extravagant against her mouth, taking her rather than begging for her. She knows what he’s going to say, she has learned how to follow his trains of thought, learned the kinds of kernels he keeps for the sake of a better moment, an apt and witty reply. Sometimes he uses them to deliver a little sting to her, a minor burn. Tonight he is going to outright murder her with it.

“Dana, do you…” he says and she tightens her grip in his hair, breathes hard into his mouth, thinking already of the ledge of the sink under her fingertips, of her hip bones burnishing its fresh-cleaned ceramic surface, “How would you like to get fucked from behind?”

She nods, briefly slips her tongue against the roof of his mouth and out again. He grins around her mouth. A little sting is coming after all.

“Passive voice,” he whispers. “Tried it my way.”

“It was fine.”

She is panting and proud of it.

“Right now?” he asks and she pulls him low and gives it to him softly because this time she could actually get arrested for what she is about to do.

“Right. Fucking. Now.”


End file.
